


she had you worried, but this is war (she won't worry you anymore)

by Cazio



Series: Concatenation [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And angst, Angst, Blood, Cazio, Depression, Gore, Harm to Animals, M/M, Post-Divorce, Self-Harm, Stony - Freeform, Superfamily (Marvel), Superhusbands (Marvel), general badassery and military swag, maybe i fell in love with blaine, peter being a douche wagon, steve and blaine kicking ass and taking names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cazio/pseuds/Cazio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve was perfectly fine now—happy, healthy, his normal self. But something along the way to returning to normal had driven away the one person he loved with all of his heart. </p><p>And now that same little kid hadn’t even wanted to tell him the news. </p><p>Fuck, life was a fickle bitch to Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she had you worried, but this is war (she won't worry you anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all so much for the overwhelming amount of comments and feedback on this series. i promise even if i haven't replied to you, i've probably read every comment about fifty times. a lot of the time i'm just so unsure how to accurately portray my thoughts that i don't respond--but i will try my best in these coming days!
> 
>   
>  _"This is the Army, Mister Green!_   
>  _We like the barracks nice and clean,_   
>  _You had a housemaid to clean your floor,_   
>  _But she won't help you any more._   
>  _Do what the buglers command,_   
>  _They're in the Army and not in a band._
> 
> _This is the Army, Mister Brown!_  
>  _You and your baby went to town,_  
>  _She had you worried but this is war,_  
>  _And she won't worry you anymore."_  
>  \- This Is The Army Mr. Jones by Irving Berlin (1943)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _[nineteen years after]_  
> 

Tony stood idle beside a lab table, staring down a piece of equipment that wasn’t functioning the way it was supposed to. A minor adjustment to the wiring should have resulted in a connection between the power source (low voltage though it was) and a light to flick on in the center chamber of the sphere-like piece of machinery. Instead, he’d gotten a whirring noise, followed by a grating noise, followed by nothing.

He frowned, a sigh passing his lips before he muttered to himself and began working again.

He was getting old.

Really, ever since he’d been sixteen, aging had scared him. There wasn’t enough time in one measly mortal life to finish all that needed done. All that needed fixed.

The fix was pretty easy, yet Tony found himself unable to play God. Extremis was the be-all-fix-all. One easy injection, a few tweaks that only one man on earth knew about so as to prevent Extremis from getting into the wrong hands (again), and he would be ticking until he either “cured” himself as he had once before, or the world exploded. Or the sun fried them. Or the undead claimed him.

But every time, he stopped himself before opening the cooler that housed the “strain.” Extremis wasn’t exactly a disease, but it wasn’t really a chemical compound or anything either. If he had to call it something, he would probably use magic.

How unprofessional.

No, instead of using Extremis, he had let his hair grey as much as he could stand. At this point it would probably be all grey like his father’s, but Tony had to dye it. The touch-of-grey look was as far as he would go.

Jackson probably wasn’t ever going to grey, the lucky bastard.

“A call from Peter, sir,” JARVIS announced, interrupting his AC/DC.

Tony set down the shell of metal he had just unfastened from the sphere and motioned for JARVIS to take the call.

“Hey, Pete,” he greeted, leaning back against his worktable and flexing his fingers.

Maybe he’d need Extremis just to fix the arthritis threatening to take his hands away from him.

“Dad! I just got off the phone with NBC—they want to do a story on me! An hour-long segment!” Peter blurted out.

A grin came to Tony’s face, albeit a little melancholy. Peter was older than he had been when he had first been given a special, but that just meant Peter had grown up the right way.

“That’s awesome, Peter,” Tony said with a wide grin. “We’ll have to put it on loop in all of the buildings.”

They co-owned Stark Industries now, and it was only a matter of time before Peter was married to Mary Jane and a new little Stark was on the way.

Every time he thought about that, his spine pinched uncomfortably because he had a horrible feeling that Steve had no idea Peter had gotten engaged. It was still quiet from the media, but Tony occasionally checked Peter’s phone records to look for malicious incoming calls and none had been made to Steve’s number in at least a year, unless it had changed.

But Tony had called once, a year ago.

_“You’ve reached Steve. Leave a message.”_

Tony didn’t leave a message, of course, but he had stood there in his bedroom for a very long time contemplating throwing up.  It hadn’t even sounded like Steve. It sounded like someone had woken up a college student at 4AM during finals week and demanded they make a voicemail message.

He tried Steve’s therapist, but she refused to acknowledge that she was even seeing a Steve Rogers.

He didn’t dare try Bucky.

The only reason he knew Steve was even still alive was from the Christmas card he’d sent last year. No notes, just a glittery, Jesus-y card with “Have a Merry Christmas” typed on the inside and a rushed signature.

Tony didn’t know why it looked so rushed. He knew Steve. He also knew Steve’s lack of a social life. A physically painful lack of a social life that made anyone within a fifty-mile radius want to steer clear.

It wasn’t like Steve had that many Christmas cards to send.

“They want to interview you, is that okay?” Peter asked. “I mean, I told them it would probably be okay, but I didn’t confirm anything. The beginning of it is going to be about my family life and stuff. Growing up and everything.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but obviously peter couldn’t see that. “Sure thing. Just have them send a decent reporter, yeah? I don’t want to deal with some People Magazine shit.”

His eyes wandered back to the part on the counter and he picked it up, rolling it in his palm.

“Is Steve going to be doing an interview?” Tony asked, though it felt like his tongue had swollen up in his mouth.

There was a brief pause. “Uh, I’m not sure. I wanted to see if you and Jackson were available first, for the more recent stuff, you know?”

Tony closed his hand around the cool metal sphere, shutting his eyes for a moment. Steve had to notice the kind of shit Peter was pulling. Tony just wished he could do something about it, but it was Peter’s life. He had no idea what kind of demon he had sold his soul to that made things turn out like this; Peter heralding him as the world’s best dad and Steve as…something else.

It wasn’t fair to Steve. At all.

“You should call him. He would want to hear from you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said distractedly. “They want to film in the Tower. And do you have Pops’ old address? They want to ask to see if they can film there too. Just to get the feel of what kind of places I grew up in.”

“Peter, call Steve,” Tony said, a little more sternly. “I don’t want him finding out about this on the news and getting upset.”

“You didn’t answer my questi—“

“Call Steve first, then we’ll talk about filming,” Tony said, cutting him off. He hung up the phone and unfolded his hand from the metal ball.

Someone had mentioned to him a few days ago that kids could be nurtured to a certain point, then they developed on their own. Parents could act like bumpers in a bowling alley, but ultimately the ball was going to make it to the pins sometime, and it wasn’t always going to be a strike.

Tony just didn’t know how the hell Steve had messed up.

Well, he did, but it sounded so cruel in his head that he refused to think about it.

Steve had tried so hard to combat his depression. He went to so much therapy that his fucking superb SHIELD medical insurance wouldn’t cover the costs after a certain point. Daily meetings with his therapist, attempting pills everyone knew would have no effect, exercising more than usual to try and drive up his endorphins—and all of it had failed miserably until he moved to Maine.

Okay, not really. Steve himself was perfectly fine now—happy, healthy, his normal self. But something along the way to returning to normal had driven away the one person Steve Rogers loved with all of his heart.

And now that same little kid hadn’t even wanted to tell him the news.

Fuck, life was a fickle bitch to Steve Rogers.

“The phone, sir,” JARVIS said. “It’s Peter.”

Tony tapped the hologram in front of him to answer. “What, Peter?”

“Pops isn’t picking up,” Peter said.

“Did you call Bucky? Maybe they’re out on a run,” Tony offered.

“Bucky said Pops couldn’t come to the phone.”

A clammy sensation ran up Tony’s back. “Did you ask why?”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Peter said. “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“Your father—“

“He’s not my father. You are.”

Tony bit his tongue, unbelieving that Peter could be so blatantly ungrateful for all that Steve had done. All of the shit Steve had to slug through for years while Peter was a toddler, four years old and under the spotlight as the world watched to see who would burn in the divorce aftermath.

“Even if Steve hated your guts he would pick up that phone and you know it. Quit being a brat and call him,” Tony snapped.

“Bucky said not to,” Peter replied in just as sharp a tone. “He gave me another number to call.”

Tony didn’t buy it. “What, did he get a new phone?”

“I don’t know, Dad!”

“Then call it! And when you call him, maybe you should tell him you’re getting married. Jesus, Peter! I know you haven’t called him yet.”

There was silence for a moment and when Peter’s voice came back on the line, it was cracked and strained. “Fine. Bye.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Charlie Two Six, this is Guardian. Permission to proceed granted, over.”

“Copy that, Guardian. Charlie Two Six, going dark.”

“Good luck. We’ll see you on the other side. Guardian out.”

With a few clicks, the static in Steve’s ears went dead. He sucked in a breath, listening to the noise of his oxygen system as it wheezed in his ears, as if to remind him he was still there, still alive.

The cabin was completely silent except for the jostling of equipment as they fought the wind. Even the blades of the heli-jet were silent thanks to Stark reactor technology. That was why these things were called OWLs, though Steve didn’t actually remember the meaning of the acronym. Operation something.

“We’re dark,” one of the pilots said over radio. “ETA five minutes. Ready up.”

Blaine shifted beside him, lifting his assault rifle and checking down the scope. Not that Steve could see Blaine’s eyes hidden behind the thick metal casing that covered his face.

Helmets had gone from the glorified buckets of World War II to technologically advanced systems that projected images from inside the helmet that made it appear as though the wearer didn’t have anything on at all. Steve didn’t even know how it was possible, but he was wearing the same helmet, and could see everything in the OWL cabin as clear as day. Well, night.

Pearson, Cueball (his real last name was Knowles), and Boone all sat on the other side of the cabin, checking over their gear and making sure they had all of their equipment.

Steve made sure he was equipped with everything he had brought: grenades, mute charges, ammo, and that the flashlight on his MK14 assault rifle was working properly. A smile nearly came to his face when the red light inside the cabin caught on the emblem painted on the side of his rifle reading “On Your Left” underneath a white star with three stripes on either side.

There were all kinds of perks that came with Special Forces. Even more than when Steve had been involved during the forties.

“Remember, quick and quiet,” Blaine said over the comm. “Mute charges on every door. Treat anyone inside as hostile. Boone, you’re on dog watch. Intel says there’s six dogs on the property. Four guarding the grounds, two inside. Even if we kill six, I don’t want any surprises.”

“Oh fuck off,” Pearson grunted. “We aren’t your FNG’s in the sim, Blaine.”

“Once we’re in the house, we have six minutes to disable the security and begin extracting intel,” Steve continued. “Cueball, you’ve got that under wraps, right?”

“Everything’s in order. Assuming they haven’t changed their systems in the last 48 hours, we’re golden,” Cueball replied.

“Excellent,” said Blaine. “While Cueball is extracting data, our objective is to find anything that will get us closer to Kim. If things go belly up, head for the trees in the southeast corner of the property, at the edge of the stone fence line.”

“ETA thirty seconds. Get ready,” the pilot announced.

Blaine flicked off the cabin lights and Steve’s vision turned green as the night vision kicked on.

There was water below them, flying by as the OWL skirted above a large lake. Blaine held up a hand. Steve took a breath, accompanied with the _shhhkt_ of his oxygen system as it adjusted to the intake of air.

Blaine’s hand went down and he leapt from the OWL, down just a few feet into the lake below. Steve jumped after him.

He hit the water and went under, but it still felt strange not to feel wet on his face or head at all. His HUD highlighted the fish fleeing from them, and Blaine as he walked across the bottom of the lake toward the house.

Steve’s beard itched uncomfortably against the bottom of his helmet as he walked, but other than that he was just fine. The mission would be an easy success, as they all had been so far. Even when things got sticky, they were the guys who were hand-selected, the best of the best.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen him as the best at anything.

Walking across the bottom of the lake wasn’t all that difficult for Steve or the men in his spec ops unit—a refreshing change from the Howlers. Of course, the Howlers were always going to be the best group of people Steve had ever worked with, but his new team was groomed for this. They had given their all just to be selected for training to be part of Special Forces. They had been through the shit time and time again. They had unmatched accuracy, skill, and precision. Nobody beat these guys.

“I’ve got heat signatures on two tangos at three o’clock,” Pearson murmured.

“Rogers, let’s take them out,” Blaine said.

Steve moved up with Blaine to the bank, staying submerged as they moved closer to the two targets Pearson had highlighted on their HUDs.

“Weapons free,” Blaine said quietly.

Steve realized as he slid from the water that he had been on this team for almost two years now. Two years of hard fighting, covert missions, and enough training to destroy a normal human being. Hell, he’d even grown a beard.

And even after Bucky had forged his signature on his Christmas cards, not one of his friends had called to ask about him. Nobody even knew he was half a world away from New York, about to kill a man.

Steve squeezed the trigger.

_Plinkt!_

His silencer muffled the noise, but the bullet was no less lethal as it hit his target.

_Plin-plinkt!_

Two more shots just to be sure the man was dead.

“Tango down,” Steve said.

“Advancing.” Blaine moved forward silently as they headed for the house, glancing around to check for movement just as Steve was doing. Meanwhile, the rest of the team emerged form the lake and hurried to catch up.

Blaine paused at one of the side doors of the house, popping open his helmet to expose his face. Everyone else followed suit except Cueball, who had pulled out a tablet and was tapping away.

“I’m securing the connection now…” Cueball muttered. “Okay, I’ve got ‘em. Locating security system, here we go.” He tapped some more. “There. Security system on standby, you’re clear.”

Blaine waited a beat while everyone readied up, and then opened the door.

Nobody shot at them, so they all filed in.

Steve kept an eye on their corners as they moved down the hallway, looking out for any signs that hostiles were nearby. Blaine moved and Steve turned to engage on instinct, reading Blaine well enough to know he was about to shoot.

_Shink-whap!_

Blaine’s rifle was pointed down and toward a corner Steve couldn’t see into.

“Five dogs left,” Blaine growled under his breath before heading toward the first door in the hall.

Steve watched for a moment as a puddle of blood began to seep into view. He caught sight of brown paws and caught a quick glance of a dog lying on its side. He would have thought it was asleep if not for the hole in its skull.

“Good eye,” he murmured before turning back toward the door.

Pearson stuck a disc to the door—the mute charge. The team flattened to the walls on either side of the door. Pearson gripped the charge remote. “Clear.”

Light burst into the hallway and for a second there was the sound of an explosion, but then only the ringing in Steve’s ears that came with dead silence as they progressed forward into the room. His muscles moved purely out of habit, his eyes scanning for the right shapes and shadows of humans, weapons, dogs.

Three bewildered men stared back, wide-eyed and without their guns at the ready.

It was far too late to even try to reach for them. Much like an animal stopped struggling once the mouth of a predator closed around its neck, none of the targets even had the time or the thought to reach for their weapons before Steve and his team were firing.

Watching people die had once haunted him. Now it reaffirmed that he was doing good.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony stared at his phone where it lay on the table. A cell phone was quickly becoming old technology, but—like any old man—Tony had trouble letting go of what he was used to. He was a pretty tech-savvy guy, but something about punching in the numbers by hand when he called someone felt like the only way to really reach them. And it let some of the terror fall away with the movement of his fingers instead of just saying something in a croaky voice and having JARVIS do it.

“I believe you said you were going to call Mr. Rogers, sir,” JARVIS oh-so-helpfully reminded him.

“Shut up,” Tony muttered, but his eyes were glued to the phone, set in a stare. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

But he had to know where the hell Steve had gone, or if he was even gone at all. The new number Bucky had given Peter was so wrought with encryptions that Tony had spent the last four hours fussing with it and still hadn’t gotten even halfway through.

Bucky was okay with all of this, which was the weird part. Even if he wasn’t okay, he still didn’t seem worried.

Well, Tony didn’t know for sure if Bucky was okay with it, as he’d been too chicken to actually call the guy. But something was up, and he didn’t know what. Tony didn’t like not knowing things. It was largely inconvenient and very, very annoying to be out of the loop. Especially when it concerned Steve, who Tony still felt an absurd amount of protective instinct over.

Despite not speaking to him for almost five years.

With a deep breath, he punched in the number.

It rang once.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box belonging to one-eight—“

Tony hung up.

Then, while he still had the courage, he dialed Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes, probably the only guy on the planet that hated him as much as Hammer, but hadn’t yet tried to kill him. Emphasis on the “yet.”

The phone rang a few times, but then someone picked up. They didn’t say hello, and there was a lot of barking in the background.

“Knock it off!” Bucky was saying, but his voice was muffled. “Do you know how long it took me to plant that fuckin’ tree? Yeah, get the—stop! No! Fluffyfucker, I swear to God if you don’t let go of the tree—“

“Bucky?” Tony asked, though he knew who it was. “Is this a bad time?”

Bucky yelled some more, then his voice was clear. “It’s always a fuckin’ bad time if you call,” he snarled.

Well, at least they weren’t going to pretend to like each other. Tony had to commend the guy for his blunt honestly. “Yeah, well, I can’t reach Steve.”

“Did you try to get Peter to call for you?” Bucky asked, his tone every bit accusing.

“Wha—No, no. Peter couldn’t reach him either. We’re getting a little nervous.”

“Nothin’ to be nervous about,” Bucky said, so plainly that Tony’s spine tingled again.

“See, that’s where I think you’re involved. Where the hell is he?”

“Since when does that concern you?” Bucky snapped.

“Since my son can’t get ahold of him.”

“Your son.”

“ _Our_ son,” Tony corrected, and his cheeks turned hot as he realized his mistake.

Bucky let out a snort. “I told Peter to call ‘n leave a message. That’s all I can tell ya.”

“I looked up the number. Or, tried to. Where the hell is he? I can’t get a location or a signal. When I can’t get either of those things, something serious is going on,” Tony said, grateful that he was getting angry so that maybe he wouldn’t sound so pathetic.

“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you do and don’t know, Stark. I said it’s nothin’ to worry about, so shut up about it. Ain’t like you or _your_ kid even care.”

“We care,” Tony snapped.

Bucky actually laughed. “Oh yeah, I’ll bet. Say, when’s the last time you called, huh? Well, you not callin’ ‘s a good thing—but what about Pete? When’s the last time he called?”

Tony gritted his teeth. “Peter’s been very busy—“

“Oh fuck that,” Bucky said, and Tony detected emotion in his voice—almost desperation. “Peter hasn’t called Steve in way over a year. Not even for Christmas or anything. After everything Steve sacrificed—for both of you. You abandoned him. That’s fuckin’ cruelty. You had to know that’s cruelty.”

A lump formed in Tony’s throat, one that told him Bucky was telling the truth.

“You know when Steve saw Peter last?” Bucky continued. “Seven months before your wedding. Almost four fuckin’ years ago.”

Tony closed his eyes. He hadn’t known that, but now that he thought about it…Peter hadn’t mentioned ever going up to visit.

He thought about one of the massive fights he and Steve had gotten into after Steve had handed over those damned papers.

_“I don’t want to be alone, but if that’s what ensures Peter is going to be happiest, then I’ll take it. If that’s what will make you step up, then fine. I’ll take it.”_

But Tony had known then that Steve wouldn’t be able to handle being all alone. Tony had never wanted that for him. That was why he forced his lawyers to give Steve joint custody. Peter needed the father that would endlessly dote on him and teach him all of the family things Tony had never learned.

“Where is he, Bucky?” Tony asked, and his voice was quivering. “Just tell me where he is.”

“No. Fuckin’. Way,” Bucky hissed.

Then the line went dead.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve hit the floor with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs. When he sucked down a breath, the floor had a faint odor of vomit that made his stomach churn.

“Jesus, Rogers, you’re starting to make me think I could be an Avenger,” Blaine chuckled, picking up his towel from the sidelines of the sparring mat to wipe off the back of his neck.

Nobody knew how old Blaine really was. His hair was a soft reddish brown, but in the light it appeared blonde most of the time. Steve referred to it as a brassy color because that was about as close as he could get to naming it—and as an artist, he knew colors pretty damn well.

The age factor came in because when Blaine laughed, there were the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and his stubble was flecked with grey.

As if to keep up the air of mystery, Blaine almost always hid his hair underneath his trademark black beanie.

Steve picked himself up off the ground, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t used to being beaten in the sparring ring, but the men in his unit weren’t normal soldiers. They were the cream of the crop—the people that hadn’t existed in Steve’s day. At least, the Army hadn’t been able to spend the time and money to look for them.

Their unit had no name. A long time ago they were called Delta, and the Navy had the SEALs (mentioning that just made all of the guys laugh—calling someone a SEAL was an insult in this group), but now they were just _there_. The Army didn’t claim them in any paperwork, and they had no commanding officer documented anywhere. They also didn’t have to follow Army regulations: beards and stubble were commonplace, as was civilian clothing around base, and no one ever had the safety on when they walked around with their weapons.

Soldiers made the mistake of calling them wannabe badasses until they saw the way that operators (that was what they were called—not soldiers) lived and trained.

Each morning started with a grueling run that went only about ten miles, but it was a race. Every single morning, the five of them battled so see who was going to win. Steve didn’t always win, either, which would have made Sam unbelievably happy if he were allowed to know what Steve was doing.

Then they went to the firing range and tested themselves until they had completed a short, mid, and long-range test with at least 95% accuracy. Steve’s shooting had always been decent, but now he rivaled Bucky in every shooting skill except sniping—where Bucky would always reign king.

The rest of the day they were drilled on equipment, procedure, and a variety of skills. Days could be made up of survival training, bomb defusing, interrogation techniques, or stealth exercises. And then there were hours in simulations that ranged from hostage situations to assassinations—all of which were designed to test their decision-making and put them under extreme stress.

It didn’t give him time to think about anything but the pain in his muscle and the burnt out brain between his ears.

He had forgotten how war gave him clarity. How the smell of cleaning grease and lead bullets and the taste of blood on his tongue made him feel alive.

“Again,” Steve said with a nod when he’d regained his breath.

Blaine rolled his eyes. “I’m hungry.”

“Again,” Steve insisted, wiping his mouth. No blood. Yet.

Blaine sighed. “Look, I get it. But we’ve been doing this for two hours,” he said, scratching at his stubble. “You can beat the shit out of anyone, we both know that.”

“Not you,” Steve said, holding Blaine’s gaze.

“Fine. One more go. Then food.”

Steve nodded. “One more go.”

“Win or lose, I’m leaving,” Blaine said. He stood up, scrubbing his beanie to scratch his head and letting out a yawn. “Fuck, I swear Galipault put fucking BB’s in the sim this morning.”

Steve rolled his neck. “You aren’t supposed to get shot.”

Blaine gave him a look and rolled his eyes again as he pulled up his sleeves.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then they were circling. Steve scanned for a sign that Blaine would come at him, and Blaine looked for the same thing in him.

Usually the circling lasted for a solid minute, but Blaine wasn’t in the mood, it seemed.

He lunged, and Steve brought up an arm to block the tackle. Blaine’s free arm hooked around his back, but his leg moved at the same time, ramming into Steve’s knee.

But Steve was prepared for that move. As he fell, he prepared for the impact and used the momentum to fling Blaine over him before rolling back to his feet.

“Nice,” Blaine praised with a sly grin. “You fell for that one last time.”

“I know.” Steve launched himself forward, but suddenly Blaine ducked lower than expected.

Blaine’s shoulder slammed into his lower abdomen, throwing his center of gravity completely off and causing him to literally land flat on his face on the mat. Blood rushed to his nose and Steve cursed as he felt warmth flood from it.

“What was that, all of two minutes?” Blaine laughed. “You’re too used to fighting inexperienced grunts, Rogers. The guys who know what they’re doing will knock you flat.”

“I don’t just fight aliens and brutes,” Steve muttered, snatching Blaine’s towel and stuffing it under his nose to stop the bleeding.

“Hey!”

Steve shot him a look and kept the towel there. “Black Widow? She’s hardly inexperienced. And in hand-to-hand, I beat her almost every time.” Natasha was a good fighter, but her weapons gave her the edge over stronger, heavier men. Without them, she could do a good enough job, but not against Steve.

Blaine cracked his neck as he slipped into his rain jacket and Steve followed suit, though it took him a bit longer only using one arm.

“Your problem is that you think I’m going to go looking for a fight,” Blaine explained as they headed down one of the brightly lit passageways toward the mess hall. “When I make a move, you keep thinking I’m going to follow through with my original plan of attack. But when I see you’ve anticipated, I adjust. Your center of gravity is up here,” Blaine knocked the back of his knuckles against Steve’s chest. “Black Widow? Hers is in her hips. That’s partly why she likes the thigh moves—yeah, yeah, I’ve seen her fight.”

Steve gave him a sour look, tipping his head back to try to stop the bleeding. His healing would have it over and done with in no time. “Spare me the lecture. I know where my center of gravity is, Blai—“

“So when I drop rthat low, it’s easy to get you off-balance,” Blaine continued with a hint of a smirk on his lips. “You’re stronger than me, and faster. I know that.” Blaine snorted. “Your cocky enemy might like to think otherwise, but because I know I can’t outfight you, I use your body to give you a disadvantage.” Blaine turned to him as the sliding doors opened to the grounds.

The grounds were the heart of the base. Despite the white, clean interior of the training facilities, the grounds were in the middle of nothing but dust, shit, and sand in the middle of Saudi Arabia. Once a powerhouse for its oil refineries, after they had dried up the place became a wasteland. America saw the chance and took it.

“You have a real problem talkin’ to us like we’re fuckin’ new guys, Blaine,” Steve muttered.

Blaine shrugged with a laugh. “Was that the Brooklyn accent I just heard, Captain?”

“I dunno, was it, _Captain_?” Steve returned sourly, though an amused smile was perched on his lips.

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I’m doing to knock you on your face,” Blaine said with a shrug, smiling. “That said, if I was fighting you for the first time—even if I knew you were Cap—I wouldn’t fight like I did in there. You’d kill me in five seconds.”

“Well, now I’m comforted,” Steve teased.

They entered the mess hall, full of soldiers chowing down on the base-grown, genetically engineered superfoods that kept them all in prime condition. Military dining had come a long way from MREs and cans of SPAM.

As usual, they cut the line. Men grumbled behind them as they filled their plates far past the allowed amounts, but hey, today was mashed potatoes and gravy.

“So you have a kid, right?” Blaine asked as he scooped more potatoes onto his plate and created a crater with the serving spoon to fill with gravy. “With Stark?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, sniffling a little to make sure his nose wasn’t going to bleed anymore. “Peter.”

Nobody asked him about his family. It was the unspoken rule of the unit. If someone didn’t want to discuss his personal life, nobody made him. But everybody talked about it at some point. The only person Steve had no idea about was Blaine. Blaine was career military—that was all Steve had managed to piece together on him.

“Right.” Blaine filled his potato crater with gravy. The soldier beside Steve stared longingly, but only scooped himself one measly splat of potatoes.

“Steve!”

Steve turned around to see Boone jogging toward him. “Hey, Jessup. What’s up?”

“Where the hell were you guys? Cueball and I got back from the range and couldn’t find you.”

“Steve still can’t beat me,” Blaine said with a grin.

Boone frowned. “Jesus, Rogers. You need to knock him down a few pegs.”

“Were you just looking for us or did you have something to tell me?” Steve asked as he forked a healthy amount of chicken breast onto his plate.

“Just talked to the brass,” Boone said. “They said you’ve gotten like eight phone calls these past two weeks.”

Steve frowned. “How come I’m just now hearing this? Did they say who it was?”

Boone shrugged. “Nobody left any messages. Just calls.”

“When was the last one?” Steve asked, trying to think what it could possibly be. Bucky knew to always leave a message, and he was the only one that had his “work” number. If he’d given it to anyone, it was probably Peter.

Boone shook his head. “Four days ago—that’s what I saw on the records anyway. Oh, and Blaine, your wife called.”

Blaine burst out laughing and Boone cracked a grin. “Fuck you, Jess.”

Boone let out a grunt as Blaine kicked him in the calf.  “She left a really hot message. _Jesus_ , Blain, you shoulda heard--”

“Fuck off,” Blaine groaned, still chuckling.

Steve blinked, tentatively assuming that this was some inside joke from before he’d joined the unit. Blaine had never mentioned having a wife, though it wouldn’t surprise him if he did.

“Thanks for telling me about the calls,” Steve said. He wasn’t going to call back. If it was important, someone would have left a message. Tony had probably just done something stupid or was blaming him for not talking to Peter, as though that were his fault.

Boone headed off toward the door and Steve and Blaine grabbed their drinks and plates and headed toward the only vacant table in the mess hall. It was a worn wooden picnic table devoid of any carvings or graffiti. But a combat knife was stuck into one of the wood planks, glinting in the light and warning anyone in the vicinity to stay away.

Nobody sat there but operators, and everyone on the base knew it.

Occasionally someone from the fresh meat would sit there without knowing, but after losing their plate of food to an operator and getting into a conversation with five men who weren’t really all that friendly to strangers, they learned their lesson.

“So why’d you wanna know about Peter?” Steve asked as he took a seat.

Blaine chewed his chicken breast and swallowed. “Two nights ago.” He nodded once. “You talked about having a son.”

Steve looked down at his plate.

That night terror had been worse than normal. Bad enough that Blaine had to shake him awake to get him to stop screaming.

“You have to get that looked at, Rogers,” Blaine warned. “That can’t happen on mission. You’ll get us all killed.”

As much as Steve had a feeling Blaine cared about him as a teammate and as a friend, nobody in this group took pity on him. All of them had their own shit to deal with and they didn’t like cowards.

It was refreshing.

 

 

An hour later and Steve, Pearson, Cueball, Boone, and Blaine were sitting around the table in Steve and Blaine’s room, though they called it their pod. A modern-looking metal and glass bunk bed sat nearby as the five of them shuffled through their worn-out playing cards.

“Two aces,” said Pearson, putting down two cards.

“Bullshit,” Cueball murmured.

“Fuck you,” Pearson grumbled, snatching up the sizable pile of cards.

“One two,” Steve said, dropping a card onto the fresh pile. Nobody called him.

“Two threes,” Blaine said.

“Hey, look. “ Boone jutted his chin toward the TV mounted in the corner of the room.

Steve glanced up at it and then looked back at his cards. He had one three. Pearson had a ton of cards so he probably had one or two threes, and Blaine would be the guy to take the risk and put down two bullshit cards.

Peter was on TV.

Steve looked back up, blinking a few times just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. But sure enough, Peter was on TV, talking to a news anchor in the living room of Tony’s penthouse.

“Hey, that’s my son,” Steve said. “Turn it up.”

Everyone put down their cards and turned to look at the screen. Blaine grabbed the remote off of his bed and turned up the volume.

“…like living with two of the most prominent Avengers as parents? You’ve got Tony Stark, Iron Man, who you now co-own Stark Industries with, and then your other father is Captain America, whose legend spans over a century.”

Peter laughed and Steve saw Tony’s smile. “I had an interesting childhood, that’s for sure. One of my dads is a billionaire genius and the other is an American icon—it’s not easy to grow up with their achievements hanging over my head.

“You were four years old when your parents divorced. How do you think that affected you?”

Peter shrugged. “I barely remember when they were together. But I’d say it affected me, sure.”

“How so?”

“When I was little I would spend one week at Tony’s house, on week at Steve’s. That was different than most of the kids my age and it was pretty hard sometimes. I’d forget something at one house but I wouldn’t want to ask my dad to go pick it up all the way across town. And Tony and Steve just have very different parenting styles,” Peter said. He gave a little shrug. “Tony was always there to help with my homework and Steve was always doing dad things, you know? Going to the zoo, taking me to baseball games, stuff like that.”

The guys laughed and Steve cracked a little smile as he scanned over Peter’s face. He was so much older. The last time they had seen each other was almost four years ago—he had grown into his lanky body. His hair still needed a comb, but Steve knew that was just the style now.

Long gone was the round chubby cheeks and squealing giggles.

“So Steve was the ‘dad’ dad, yet you said that you aren’t very close to him anymore. Can I ask how that came to be?”

The laughing stopped. Steve’s smile stopped with it.

Peter swallowed and gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. People see him as this great figure of American history—and he’s still that to me, don’t get me wrong—but I think he’s just different now.”

The reporter nodded. “He declined to comment for this show.”

Peter sighed. “Really? Huh.” Peter worked his jaw for a moment before speaking again. “I love Steve, he’s my dad, but he’s so…I don’t know. He’s absorbed in this fictional world he’s built for himself, I think—Sorry, I know that sounds bad.”

Peter sighed. “He lives out in the middle of nowhere. Never calls me or talks to me or anything. And it’s not just me—nobody’s heard from him for years.”

Steve looked away from the screen, not willing himself to listen to any more.

The guys tried to pretend they weren’t watching him as Peter went on to describe life with Tony, how fantastic it was to be part of the best clean-energy business in the world and all of the things they had accomplished together as father and son.

Was that what Peter really thought?

The question echoed in Steve’s head as he sat there, staring at the floor. Peter thought he was absorbed in a fictional world. Steve didn’t even know what that meant. If anything, it had just been that he couldn’t handle city life anymore. Plenty of people were like that. Plenty of people were—

“Have you set a date for the wedding?” the reporter asked Peter with a wide smile.

Steve didn’t have the thought to disguise his surprise as he looked up.  On the screen were a few pictures of Peter and Mary Jane, pictures Steve had never seen.

“Did my dad tell you about that?” Peter laughed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “We haven’t set a date yet, but yeah, we’re engaged.”

“I’m turning it off,” Blaine grunted.

Steve put out a hand. “No, don’t.”

Nobody moved.

The story had turned to a series of clips and pictures about Peter’s history with Mary Jane, how they met and how long they had dated.

Then Tony was sitting there, looking older and wiser, but still with the same warmth to his eyes and smirk on his lips.

“What, was I not supposed to say he was getting married?” Tony laughed. “Oops.”

The camera moved to Jackson, who was sitting beside Tony, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“When we come back, and interview with Iron Man about his son’s achievements in global energy technologies,” a narrator said over a muted shot of Tony explaining something.

Peter was engaged to Mary Jane. Long enough that there were engagement pictures, but not long enough for the media to have known about it officially. Maybe one of those phone calls had been to tell him the news. Maybe Peter had been trying to reach him to ask him how he should propose, what to say and do and where to go.

Probably not.

“I have a few phone calls to make,” Steve said quietly as he stood up.

Nobody said anything as he walked out. They weren’t the type of men to ask unnecessary questions about his personal life.

 

* * *

 

 

At the end of the special, Tony flicked off the TV before the credits had started rolling. He hoped to God that wherever Steve was in the world, that he hadn’t seen that program. NBC said they weren’t going to air the segment about the engagement until they had confirmed that Steve knew about it. Not to mention they had cut out the part where Tony had spent about two minutes detailing what a fucking great father Steve had been.

Oh, his lawyers were going to be all over that.

Sensationalized media had made it look like Steve was an absent, uncaring, hobo father that didn’t want to speak to them. Not that Peter had helped the situation with his stupid comments.

“A call, sir.”

Tony didn’t ask if it was Jackson. The way his blood ran cold…he knew who was on the line.

“Put him through,” Tony whispered.

He wasn’t sure JARVIS had heard him until he heard the click of a line and someone breathing on the other end.

“Steve?” Tony tried.

“Hey.”

Oh no. God no. Tony put his head in his hands, propping his elbows on his knees. Steve had seen it. “What’s—How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Steve said in an even tone.

“Are you being held hostage somewhere?” Tony joked, but it fell flat.

“No,” Steve answered, as though Tony had been asking the question seriously. “But I did watch the news.”

Tony closed his eyes. “Steve…We tried to call you. I told them not air it. I’m going to sue them—I signed paperwork that said they wouldn’t reveal that unless we had confirmation that you knew.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said in a voice that gave Tony chills. He genuinely sounded as though it really was okay. Nobody would be okay with that.  “I just wanted to know if it was true.”

Tony swallowed. “It’s true. And this time, we’re sending you an invitation. I’ll know about it this time, even.”

Now he sounded like an absolute prick. Not funny, not funny.

“I can’t go.”

“What? You don’t even know the dates yet, Steve.”

“And I know I can’t go,” Steve said in that same chilling tone.

Now that pissed him off. “Where the hell are you, Spangles?”

“Don’t call me that.” He hadn’t heard that in a few decades.  “I’m nowhere that concerns you or Peter.”

“Something tells me that’s the idea,” Tony snapped. “You’re lucky Bucky knows where you are or I’d be heading a manhunt for you right about now.”

Tony let out a huff. “Well, you called me. What did you call for?”

“I want you to answer one question, and I want you to answer it honestly.”

Tony shook his head. “Nope. We’re not doing this.”

Of all the things Steve could bring up right now. Tony didn’t need to be put on the spot and asked if he still loved Steve Rogers. It was pretty fucking obvious to everyone that he did. Hell, Jackson even knew about it to some extent. Jackson at least knew that a divorce didn’t mean he’d stopped loving the man he’d been married to.

Steve sighed. “That’s not the question. I know the answer to that one.”

“Oh, you do?” Tony snapped. “How are you so sure about that?”

Silence.

Then: “If I went to Peter’s wedding, would he want me there?”

Tony’s anger dropped off so quickly that he wasn’t sure how to feel for a second. And whenever that happened, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” Steve said, almost thoughtfully.

Tony regained his bearings and hated himself for saying that, even if he did think it was the truth. At least he hadn’t said what he was really thinking: _Peter would feel like he had to entertain you the whole time._

“What the hell happened between you two?” Tony asked, pulling up a few screens to try to trace the call. He wanted to know where Steve was.

“Well, apparently I’m stuck in my fictional world,” Steve chuckled.

“You know he didn’t mean that,” he said. “They cut it all up and ripped things out of context.

“Come on, Tony,” Steve said in the same way he used to when he took Peter’s side about whether they were going to the zoo or Coney Island. “I haven’t been part of this family for a long time.”

“You’re always part of this family,” Tony said, but he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore. Steve was off somewhere else. He never checked in. He never called or asked why he hadn’t seen Peter. It was like he didn’t even want to be part of the family anymore.

“Right. Well.” There was something heavy in Steve’s voice that Tony had lost the ability to recognize.

“But you’re coming to Peter’s wedding. He’s our first priority, remember?”

“His happiness is our first priority,” Steve corrected. “He hasn’t seen me in four years. I’m not going to force it on him at his wedding when he doesn’t want me there.”

“It might help if you called him sometime, Steve,” Tony said. “Don’t act like this is Peter’s fault. You move to the east coast and you don’t even invite him up there to see you? He probably just feels like he isn’t welcome.”

Silence.

“You two co-own Stark Industries now?”

Tony blinked. “Uh, yeah, since like—“ _Two years ago_.

Oh fucking hell.

“Neat,” Steve mused. “That’s really good.”

Tony’s throat was too tight to speak for a moment. The elevator dinged. “Where are you, Steve? We need to talk. Fly in and we’ll talk. There’s a lot we should catch up on.”

Jackson stepped into the living room, greeting him with a wave instead of a kiss once he noticed Tony was on the phone.

“Send my invitation to Bucky.” Steve said, as though they weren’t talking about their son. Their Petey. “I still have my mom’s old ring—If Peter wants it for something, he can have it. If not, I’ll donate it to the museum or something.”

“Stop that,” Tony snapped. Jackson cocked a brow. “Stop acting like you don’t belong here. Your Peter’s father, you’re going to his wedding. You can give him the ring yourself.”

“You raised him, Tony. He’s your son.”

“Oh, so you’re just abandoning him now that he’s not a little kid for you to coddle?” Tony snapped. “Don’t pull that shit with me, Steve. Don’t pull this insecurity bullshit. The world does _not_ revolve around you. Whether Peter truly wants you there or not doesn’t matter. You go to your kid’s wedding.”

A warm hand came to his shoulder and for a second Tony wanted to shrug it off and recoil, like Steve was going to catch him having some sort of affair. But it was Jackson, so he leaned into the touch because Jackson was his husband for crying out loud.

A husband that had fully supported Peter in all of his pursuits when Steve had been absent.

“He didn’t just stop growing up after high school,” Tony cut when Steve didn’t respond. “Every time he’s needed something for college, he’s called me. Know why? Because you don’t ever reach out to help. You used to beg me for just a few more hours with him and now you don’t even put up a fight. He’s still your kid and now you want to push him on me? No way.”

Fuck Steve. Tony had never expected him to turn out to be the asshole father, but here they fucking were.

“He’s twenty three. He’s two years younger than when you went to war. He’s just as young and stupid as you and I were. He needs you there, guiding him, but you’ve just—you’ve—I don’t even know. If you’re too much of a coward to tell him you don’t want him, then tough luck. I’m not telling him.”

Silence.

Oh, the nerve of this fucking—

“Call your son. Don’t come calling to try to make me feel bad for you anymore. He’s your kid, you tell him the bitter truth. At least have the balls to do that.”

With that, he hung up the phone, slamming it down on the countertop and shattering the glass screen.

 

* * *

 

 

Pearson said he found him at the perimeter fence, but Steve had no memory of being there. Yet when he closed his eyes, he saw the coils of razor wire and felt the warmth spreading up his arms.  He also remembered an embrace, almost a spiritual experience.  He saw the problem too: a gap in the fence. A gap that needed fixed and secured before time was up, before the bomb exploded, before he was discovered.

“You’re one stupid fuck,” Blaine muttered as he pulled a needle through Steve’s skin. “Next time you decide to fix a fence, you get wire cutters and a fucking ladder first.”

Steve watched the black thread pull through his flesh and smiled. He looked like Frankenstein, both arms were a lattice of black stitching over pale skin. 

The medic said it would heal in a few days.

“Had to get my mind off of some things,” Steve said with a little shrug.

Blaine glared at him before leaning down to cut the thread with his teeth. After a painful tug on Steve’s arm, he sat up again. “If there hadn’t been that hole in the fence, I would have thought you were up there trying to get yourself hurt.”

Steve chuckled. “You caught me. I didn’t want to go in the sim today.”

Blaine worked his jaw, his gaze probing.

Steve looked away and down at his arm. “How come you stitched me up and not the medic?”

“In case you forgot, we aren’t part of the military,” Blaine said. “That means we don’t get their care. You’re a certified medic, dumbass. We didn’t train you just so you can use your skills if you have no other choice.”

They both knew his question had been an attempt to stall.

Steve moved to stand, but Blaine’s elbow caught him in the sternum with a thud.

Steve shot him a look. “What?”

“You aren’t leaving yet,” Blaine replied, looking him dead in the eye. “Who did you call when you left?”

Steve gritted his teeth. “That’s my personal life. Personal problems. Not something you—augh!”

He hissed with pain as Blaine’s hand wrapped around his arm and squeezed, pulling at his stitches.

“This just became a team problem,” Blaine said evenly. “I don’t know if you think you’re a good liar, but you aren’t. I don’t need details, but I need to know what’s going to trigger this so it doesn’t happen again.”

Steve’s nostrils flared and he considered ripping his arm from Blaine’s grasp, even if there would be a lot of blood. “I called my ex husband,” Steve snarled. “There. Don’t worry, I have no intention of doing that ever again.”

“Was it about what we saw?”

Steve’s lips pressed to a hard line. “You’re smart. I’m really impressed that you connected those two—“

“Fuck off,” Blaine growled, his light eyes narrowed to two foamy-green slits. “What’d he say?”

“He just reminded me why I’m here,” Steve replied.

“Tell me.”

He should have come right back to the barracks. He should have walked in crying and gone to bed. No one would have said anything and they wouldn’t have mentioned it. It would be over and done with.

“No.”

“Rogers, I swear. You keep that shit bottled up and it ends up killing you,” Blaine warned in a low tone.

Steve snorted. “It’s my personal problems. They won’t affect the team. They haven’t ever affected it before and they won’t now.”

Blaine shook his head. “Pearson found you with both your arms wrapped up in razor wire. Like you were trying to pull it down with your bare hands. That means something is seriously wrong here.”

It would do no good to tell him, as much as Steve liked to think it would. Telling people that his issues all stemmed from the family that thought he was a selfish, uninterested twat just made them say stupid things like ‘I’m sorry’ and feel bad. The last thing he needed was Blaine feeling bad for him.

“I’ve got it handled, Blaine,” Steve cut. “You’re out of line.”

Blaine let out a snort. “I’m out of line? Fuck, Rogers, I’m not the one that looks like I walked out of a horror movie. You did this on purpose and I know it, even if you don’t.”

“I would not injure myself because I felt sad!” Steve burst out. “The fence needed fixing and I fucking fixed it! At least, I was trying to before I fell off the goddamn thing. I am _not_ a piece of shit that begs for attention by cutting up his arms—don’t you even _imply_ that I am!”

Blaine was unfazed. “Then explain to me what happened so I can rule that out.”

Tears pricked in Steve’s eyes just remembering how angry Tony had sounded. “My son and my ex husband don’t want me in the family anymore. I’m a selfish coward and I accept that. My son got engaged and didn’t tell me. He owns a company now and he didn’t tell me that either.”

Peter actually didn’t want to be around him anymore. Peter actually didn’t like him or want him at the wedding. At least he knew now. At least he didn’t have to wonder any longer.

“And it’s my fault and I know that too. I moved away to see if I could stop myself from acting like an idiot every time they were around—crying and acting like a goddamn water fountain all the time.” Peter had probably been too embarrassed to have anyone over when he was younger for fear that Steve would have some sort of breakdown. Fuck, what a loser. What a cowardly loser. He tried to run his hand through his hair, but his palms were a mess of tender, shredded skin and black stitching.

“And now they just…” His brows lifted. “Well, I mean, _everyone_ just thinks I’m only around to create a scene. I went to my ex’s wedding three years ago. Talk about a mistake. Everyone thought I was there to try to ruin the ceremony.” He shook his head slowly, his eyes glazing over a little as he thought about how low he had gotten, how miserable.

He was fine now.

Better than fine.

“So,” he digressed, “I just won’t call again. Over and done with.”

Blaine nodded slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Okay.”

Steve blinked.

Blaine continued. “We all have shit to deal with. As long as something like this doesn’t happen again, you deal with it how you want. Just know that we’re at war here. You suck it up, no matter what.”

“I’ve been to war,” Steve growled.

Blaine laughed. “Things were easier in your war.  You always knew you were actually fighting the bad guys. Out here, we kill who they tell us to kill. And according to a lot of people out there, we’re the real enemy.” He stood up and dropped his needle onto the small table by Steve’s shoulder. “You can’t look at it like we’re doing good here, and that’s supposed to wash out what’s happening back home.  We’re killing people just because some politician says they’re supposed to be dead. Some men can’t take that, but those men aren’t here.”

Blaine took off his beanie and ruffled his hair before putting the beanie right back on again. “Get fixed up. You’ll go out with us in two days. I expect you to be ready to kill and complete the mission.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Steve watched him leave with a sickening feeling churning in his gut. Not because Blaine’s words surprised him, but because he knew he was going to stay even if he was right. Maybe he was killing people for no reason. Maybe he was just following some politician’s orders. But he was doing something with himself. He had a purpose here—and no one he had killed looked the least bit innocent to him. They exterminated high-value targets, evil men in charge of the bloodshed.

Right?

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later and Steve had found his strength again.

The mangled scars crisscrossing Steve’s arms had faded to a cheerful pink, creating intricate sleeves of flesh tattoos not visible underneath his thick winter gear. Even with three pairs of wool socks, his feet were frozen as he picked his way through the snow, carefully stepping into the tracks that Blaine left behind.

The forest around them was silent except for the occasional noise of snow falling from the thick coniferous branches above and the crunching of snow beneath their boots.

“Enemy patrol headed in your direction,” Cueball said over radio.

Blaine immediately turned, heading for a collection of scraggily, leafless bushes nearby. It wasn’t great cover, but it was all they had. Steve followed, his silenced sniper rifle in hand.

Blaine moved onto his stomach and Steve squeezed in beside him, grimacing as the branches scratched at his face.

Three dark figures moved into view, and soon their voices were audible.

“You understand this?” Blaine whispered.

Steve knew a decent amount of Russian from Bucky and Natasha, but he hadn’t practiced with it in a very long time. Bucky didn’t like to speak it unless he was incredibly pissed and wanted to convey it so strongly that Steve would know what he was saying even if it was in a different language. That didn’t happen very often, though.

“Cigarette—but I wasn’t even able to—eating the fucking thing,” one of the soldiers was saying.

“The—dog ate mine,” the other replied and they shared a chuckle.

A Belgian Malinois walked between the two, ears pricked and nose working.

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Steve murmured, carefully pulling his scope to his eye.

“Overwatch, is this all of them, over?” Blaine asked.

“Affirmative,” Cueball answered. “No sights on any other tangos in the area. The other patrol is headed east, over.”

Steve adjusted his scope and rested his cheek on the stock, shutting one eye.

One of the soldiers, the furthest one, was smoking a cigarette. He had an ugly scar on his right brow, with an ugly smile to match it. The other soldier holding the dog was significantly younger than the first, with blond hair peeking from beneath his hat.

“One has an AK, the other…looks like an MK16,” Steve said. “Dog is leashed.”

“You take the dog, I’ll get the AK,” Blaine murmured, settling into the snow a little more. “We’ll go on your signal.”

Steve watched the men’s breath ghost in front of them as they talked, the flash of a smile from the blond man as he gestured about something in his story. Nobody in his family would know what his last moments alive had been like, or that they had taken place in a forest with a dog and a man with an ugly scar.

“Your go, Rogers.”

Steve lined the red dot of his scope up to the dog’s chest. It was a tricky shot, but even if he had to punch through a leg or two, the bullet would kill its target.

He took a breath, calculating the beats of his heart. One-two, one-two, one-two—

_Shhkt!_

The bullet tore straight through the blond boy’s leg and a splat of red appeared on the dog’s chest before it slumped to the ground.

The scarred man fell clutching his chest from Blaine’s bullet and Steve quickly aligned his next shot as the blond boy stared down at his severed leg. The boy’s mouth opened to scream, but only a garbled note escaped his lips before Steve pulled the trigger and punctured the boy’s chest.

“Moving,” Blaine said, hopping up from cover and heading toward the fallen enemies.

Steve hesitated for only a second and then followed.

Bodies had been everywhere during the war. Decaying corpses were commonplace, both enemy and friendly. During the height of the fighting, there just wasn’t time to get anyone in caskets or in the ground.

But it was always different knowing the bodies were there because of his bullets.

Blaine grabbed the scarred man by the collar and started dragging him off toward the bushes.

“Grab the dog and the body. Hurry up,” he muttered over his shoulder.

Steve nodded and grabbed the blond boy by the collar. The dog sneered up at him even after death until Steve grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and its jaws went slack.

“Always giving me the heavy lifting,” Steve said with a smile, as if he hadn’t just killed another human being. As if he wasn’t dragging that human being’s body through the snow.

He slung the boy’s body unceremoniously onto the other man’s before tossing the dog on top.

“What’s in this compound anyway?” Steve asked quietly as Blaine brushed the red snow from his gloves.

“Fuck if I know,” Blaine muttered. “We just get the intel and get out.” Blaine looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “We don’t ask questions that don’t pertain to the success of the mission.”

Steve held his gaze. “If they’re manufacturing atomic bombs in there and it’s full of radiation, I’d say that pertains to the success of the mission.”

“You’re a real ass, you know that?” Blaine growled, but there was a smirk on his lips. “Come on.”

After checking their weapons, they headed deeper into the forest, scanning for more patrols. Cueball was manning a UAV above that could detect enemy movement, but with the thick cover of the pines, the margin of error was higher.

Soon a chain link fence came into view and Steve grabbed Blaine’s shoulder to stop him.

“Four targets, two o’clock,” Steve hissed.

Both of them dropped low and pulled up their weapons. Two men stood alert at a gate, each with a dog.

“Overwatch, give me something. What can you see in there?” Blaine asked.

“Can’t see, I have to come back around,” Cueball answered.

Blaine nodded toward the gate. “If this is it, take out the two on the right. If more are inside, we’ll have to cloak in.”

Steve nodded and readied his sniper, centering his sight on the dog’s chest.

“Four tangos at the gate, patrol moving around the perimeter on the northeast side,” Cueball said over radio. “Looks like it could get hot fast—we don’t have any intel on how many are inside the compound, over.”

“Copy that,” Blaine said. “We’re cloaking in.”

Steve watched for enemy movement while Blaine dug out a facemask from his pocket. He slid it on over his beanie and then down over his face before slipping on a pair of sunglasses. When Blaine retrieved his rifle, Steve did the same.

They had two minutes to get into the compound and out of sight once they activated their cloaking systems. Similar to the stealth mode of the helicarrier, their combat gear was laced with nano particles that essentially turned them invisible for a short period of time. Of course, it wasn’t perfect, but it was much safer than trying to sneak in without it.

“Overwatch, do you see any other patrols near the south fence?” Steve asked.

“Negative on that one, Rogers,” Cueball replied. “The trees are too thick, I can’t see anything within ten feet of the fence line.”

“Looks like we’re doing this old school,” Blaine said with a grin. “You might even be able to keep up, Rogers.”

“Very funny,” Steve muttered, smiling.

Then they were both serious again and advancing toward the fence line. The two men at the gate didn’t appear to be looking in their direction, but Steve didn’t want to take the chance, so they moved slowly, far back in the shadows of the pines.

Blaine didn’t even take his chance to joke about wire cutters when they reached the fence and he pulled out a pair. This was a mission now, not a social gathering. Steve kept an eye on the men at the gate while Blaine flicked on the cutters to produce a beam of energy between the two metal prongs. The beam sliced through the metal like a hot knife through butter, and without a sound.

Blaine gently slapped him on the back to get his attention before speaking into the comm, “Entering the compound through the fencing. Overwatch, keep us updated on that patrol.”

“Copy that,” Cueball replied. “They’re currently heading southeast toward the gate.”

After Blaine was through the fence, he held back the metal until Steve could slip through before closing the hole again, setting it so that only a trained eye would be able to tell that it had been breached.

“Cloaking,” Blaine murmured, pressing a button on his forearm.

“Cloaking,” Steve repeated, doing the same.

A shimmer ran over Blaine’s form before his body disappeared altogether, save for a few refractions of light that didn’t look quite right.

They headed for the compound, searching for an entryway that wouldn’t trip an alarm. It would be impossible to tell which doors were safe, but they had no other choice.

But for what?

They were on this mission to grab a few hard drives, but something had to be on them if operators were being sent out instead of soldiers. Steve didn’t really enjoy thinking about how some people thought his and Blaine’s lives were worth a chunk of metal and wiring, but worse was that they could be killed without even knowing what information was on the files.

But their unit did not ask questions, like Blaine had said. They killed because someone else deemed it necessary.

Yet Steve had a hard time believing that Blaine was really okay with that. Killing for a good paycheck (a very good paycheck) wasn’t worth the mental baggage. There had to be something more. Nobody would be okay with just following orders unless there was some sort of goodness, some benefit. Blaine wouldn’t be okay with the alternative.

“Hold it,” Blaine said suddenly, and Steve stopped in his tracks.

It took a moment, but then Steve saw why they were stopped.

A man stood by an open door, taking a smoke.

Blaine lifted his rifle in one fluid motion and fired.

The man fell into the snow with a wheeze.

“That’s for scaring me, motherfucker,” Blaine hissed.

Steve snorted. “Nice shooting.”

They hurried forward and into the door the man had left open. Steve grabbed the body on the way in and dragged it inside before shutting the door behind him. A security system flashed above, but the flash was green. Safe.

“Inside the compound,” Blaine announced. “Steve, turn off cloaking, we might need it later.”

They uncloaked and pocketed their masks and glasses as Blaine led the way down a corridor. Both of them knew the interior of the compound by heart—they had spent most of last night quizzing each other; memorizing corners, hidden nooks, and potential escape routes. They probably knew this facility better than the people working inside it.

When they rounded the first corner on the way to the training room, Blaine came face-to-face with a pair of enemies.

Immediately, Steve launched into action beside his friend, his protective instinct kicking into overdrive.

His movements were flawlessly smooth, having practiced the same techniques over and over again with Blaine in the sparring ring. Adrenaline flooded through his bloodstream as he wrenched the man’s head around and rammed a knee into his spine. The man clamored for his weapon but Steve slammed him face-first into the wall and delivered a punch to the base of his neck.

The punch hit a nerve and the man spasmed, crumpling to the floor. Steve sucked in a breath, his eyes wide, but he could feel a smile on his lips.  He dropped to his knees on the man’s back and pulled the UMP-45 from the man’s holster and held it to his head.

Without hesitation, Steve pulled the trigger.

The noise was muffled by the man’s skull, enough that Steve wasn’t worried about anyone hearing. He flipped the body over and tossed the gun, wordlessly scanning for an ID, swipe card, or something else they might be able to use later. He spotted an ID card with a barcode and yanked it from the man’s belt.

He turned to see Blaine hunched over the body of the first soldier, cleaning his combat knife on the man’s jacket.

“Fucking hell,” Blaine growled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, grabbing his fallen rifle from the floor.

“He got me in the ribs, but it didn’t go deep,” Blaine replied, gingerly prodding at his right side. “I’m all right.”

“This hard drive better be worth it,” Steve said, extending a hand to help him up.

Blaine shot him a look before taking his hand. “It doesn’t matter. We complete the mission. Augh!” He winced, then slung his right arm around a few times the same way Bucky did after he got his arm looked at.

Steve frowned. “You sure you’re okay?”

“If I die, then I’m not okay,” Blaine grumbled. “Let’s get the hard drive.”

Cueball came in over the comm. “Two enemy vehicles heading for the compound. Hurry up in there, boys.”

“Working on it,” Blaine snapped.

Steve switched out his sniper for the assault rifle mounted on his back, checking his ammo and eyeing down the scope once before nodding to Blaine. With that, they headed for the control room.

Upon reaching the scanner to enter, Steve pulled out the ID tag and showed the barcode. The screen turned red, reading something in Russian that Steve assumed wasn’t good.

“I’m gonna have to breach,” Steve said, pulling a mute charge from his pack. He stuck it to the door and nodded to Blaine before triggering the charge.

The door blew open and the familiar silence rushed over them as they charged into the control room.

A woman stood at a computer and turned to look at them. Steve locked eyes with her for a moment, noticed the pistol on her hip, and shot her on sight. Blaine fired beside him and took out another man in the room and then they were running for the computers.

Despite what Tony liked to think, Steve was a lot different than he’d been on that helicarrier decades ago. He crouched beside one of the computers and started tearing at wires. In his head, he knew what each port and wire did, and the potential value for all of it.

“Explosive drone by the door,” Blaine announced before heading over to help him.

Steve glanced over the computer modem at the woman on the floor, watching for just a moment as blood spilled from her lips like red wine, pooling dark onto the floor.

“This is Overwatch, we’ve got a silent alarm triggered in the compound,” Cueball said. “Twenty plus tangos headed in, over.”

“Copy that,” Steve replied, ripping open the metal plating on the computer modem. The hard drive was there, exposed like a gleaming jewel underneath more wires. He leaned down, squinting to try to make out the code stickered on the side. “Hard drive ID is one-alpha-foxtrot-five-seven-zero-tango-zulu.”

“Copy that,” Cueball replied. “That’s a match.”

“I’ve got ID one-alpha-foxtrot-zero-zero-four-whiskey-mike,” Blaine said.

“Copy. That’s a match. Take them and go, it’s about to get hot as fuck in there. Dogs are going in,” Cueball warned, and his voice was getting tight.

“Blaine, let’s go.” Steve stuffed the hard drive into his pocket, glancing once more at the woman.

He briefly wondered if she was a mother. If she was even supposed to have been in this room or if she had just stepped in to say hi to the man Blaine had killed.

“Come on,” Blaine said quietly, tapping him on the head.

Steve stood and they headed out the door. “Overwatch, are they using the entrance we came in? West side?”

It took Cueball a moment to respond, allowing the sounds of shouting men to reach them and echo through the hall. Steve’s heart rate skyrocketed, but it was a welcome feeling. He loved when a sense of danger clawed at his skin.

A bullet zipped by his head and Steve’s nostrils flared as he pressed forward and down the hall.

“Cueball!”

“West side is clear. Repeat: West side is clear,” Cueball said hurriedly. “Can’t say for how long though.”

“Go, go!” Blaine shouted.

They rounded a corner and Steve lifted his rifle, firing at three oncoming guards. One after the other, they fell to the ground, no match for the practiced accuracy of two operators.

Blaine’s breath was ragged behind him and Steve slowed a little bit, but Blaine let out a warning growl when he did. Steve kept sprinting. The door came into view and Steve let out a harsh breath of relief.

When he yanked the door open, it flew off the hinges.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Blaine’s arm and yanking him forward. They had a lot of ground to cover.

Then he heard the distant sound of barking.

“Fuck!” Blaine swore.

Steve kept a hand wrapped around Blaine’s forearm and pushed himself to the limit. They had to make the fence. Blaine had to make the fence.

If anyone was going to get killed on this mission, it would be Steve.

He tore the broken piece of fence from where they had set it and threw Blaine through the hole. Blaine let out plenty of curses on the way through, but he got though.

Steve pulled up his rifle and fired at one of the oncoming dogs. One flipped head over heels into the snow with a yelp.

But the other one was too close.

Steve shot, but the dog tackled him, sinking its teeth into the already-tender flesh of Steve’s arm. He let out a grunt of surprise and then a second dog hit.

Dogs growled much louder than they sounded on TV. Even louder than in the sim.

The second dog tore into his leg, knocking him to the ground. Pain seared from both bites, especially when the first dog started to tug. Steve let out a scream without meaning to and punched the dog in the head, but it just clamped down tighter on his arm.

He tried to reach for his knife or a gun or something, but he couldn’t. The other soldiers were on the way. He just needed to be dead before they got him. He didn’t even want to risk failing the torture and interrogations and fessing up intel. Coward that he was, he would break at some point. And if they ever figured out his true identity, Tony and Peter would be at risk.

Then again, maybe not. Bucky would be most at risk, and no one in their right mind—especially a Russian—would ever go after him.

The growling in his ears was deafening, as were the sounds of his tearing flesh and muscle.

He took in a sharp breath and just like that, he realized he was addicted to this. To war. To killing people and spilling blood and completing the mission. The repetition of training and fighting and pushing himself past his physical limits until there was nothing left. Being stripped down to nothing and put back together scrap by scrap, raw and bleeding. The solace of routine, structure, and a healthy sense of worthlessness. Missions took priority. Over teammates, friends, and especially family.

Fighting for God and country was out the window. They fought because it helped them feel alive and breathing and good. They fought for praise from fellow soldiers and the glory of enemy lives in their hands.

The exertion, the falling to the dirt because he physically could not stand, and then getting back up and finding the will to move on because his team needed him, his men needed him. Not because of Peter or Tony.

Not even because it was right.

He had been naïve when he agreed to Project Rebirth. He had wanted to fight the good fight and save the world and do whatever else it was that they plastered on those propaganda posters. Then he had gone overseas and learned what it felt like to have his teeth rattled by mortar fire, he had learned that turning German men into Krauts, Boches, and Germs made them easier to kill. He had seen rotting corpses of friend and foe, festered in the scent of decaying limbs and burning flesh and felt the tough fabric of enemy clothing as he searched bodies for ammo, weapons, food. He had looked into the eyes of men he had called his friends and saw them lusting for the kill and he had lusted with them.

Then they were spit back into a world where they were supposed to be civilized, clean, and respectable. Abandon the routine, the order, the safety of regiments, rifles, and the raucous cries of slaughtered enemies.

He had tried to start a new life for himself while just tasting the delicacies of the fight. Sleeping in beds far too soft with a man who had spoken sickly sweet words in his ears while falling out of love with him.

No, Steve never wanted to touch that life again.

He wanted this pain forever.

He gasped and the blackness that had shrouded his vision exploded into white.

A dog was staring at him, its tongue lolling out and eyes vacant. There was a faint pounding in his head that he soon realized was the sound of gunfire. He groaned and sat up—until Blaine shoved him back down.

“Keep your head down,” Blaine snapped. “You aren’t in any shape to move.”

More gunfire.

“ ‘M okay,” Steve slurred, turning onto his left side. His right arm was a mess, but his kneepads and shin guards had protected at least the front of his legs. Operators did not give up, and Steve was not about to let Blaine handle this on his own.

He flopped his hand over toward a rifle in the snow. A lot of it was dark red.

“Your arms chewed all to hell, Steve,” Blaine snarled.

“Still works, doesn’t it?” Steve tried to joke. He grabbed the rifle and dragged himself over to the log that Blaine was using as cover. “What’s going on?”

Blaine glared at him for a second before he returned to shooting. “You got your ass chewed up by dogs, then I saved your chewed up ass and dragged you to cover.”

Steve looked back down at the dog. “Why’d you bring the dog?”

“Well sorry, you didn’t bring your vibranium shield,” Blaine growled. “Remind me to have you bring it next time.”

“It is pretty convenient in times like this,” Steve said dryly, slinging his rifle up onto the log. “Do we have an EVAC?”

“Shut up,” Blaine hissed. “Just shut the hell up, Rogers.”

Steve closed one eye and lined up a shot. _Shhinkt!_ Target down.

The log sprayed splinters in their faces as a Russian bullet ripped into the wood, but Blaine took care of the shooter a heartbeat later.

Steve’s vision blurred for a moment, but he blinked it away, trying to avoid the dizziness. He hadn’t taken a good look at his arm yet, and he didn’t think it would be a good idea to do so until they were back in the barracks. 

“You’re nervous,” Steve teased.

“Shut the fuck up,” Blaine shot back.

Steve smiled and sent another bullet into a man’s chest. “So you are nervous.”

“I’m not nervous. I’m furious. With you, Rogers,” Blaine spat.

Steve cocked a brow, but then his vision went dark for a moment. He felt his cheek slump against the log.

“Gotta keep your head up to shoot, Rogers,” Blaine murmured, nudging him with his elbow before returning fire.

“Sorry.” He forced his eyes open and tried aiming down his sights again. He couldn’t make out any of the shapes, but he shot anyway to provide covering fire. They couldn’t possibly have much ammo left.

“You gave up,” Blaine said quietly. “I watched you just give up, you fucker.”

“We’re not getting into—“

“You have intel in your bag, Steve,” Blaine cut. “You nearly compromised this mission—“

“I was savin’ your life!” Steve retorted in a slurry voice.

“I know you live under the impression that everyone thinks you’re a goddamn saint, Rogers,” Blaine said as he continued returning fire until his mag was empty. He cursed, grabbed another clip, and slapped it in. “But even though you might have been trying to save me—and, I didn’t need the help, by the way— the second those dogs started tearing you up, you abandoned mission.”

“I did not—“

“You do not abandon mission!” Blaine shouted, glaring at him with so much fury in his eyes that Steve would have shrunk away if he were capable of doing anything but pulling a trigger.

Something screamed in the air above them and suddenly he was on his back in the snow with Blaine leaning over him.

An explosion rocked the earth beneath them and Steve shut his eyes as the sky above turned a bright orange over Blaine’s shoulder.

His vision began to fade, and Steve knew it was going to go black for a long time. He didn’t think of Peter, or Tony. He saw balloons, Coney Island. But he felt the warm hold of a chubby little fist around his index finger, the feeling of ruffling Peter’s soft hair, warmed by the sun.

And then the humiliation in court as Tony glared at him while his lawyers shredded him in front of a room full of cameras, press, and civilians. The anguish of Peter saying he didn’t want to stay the summer. The hatred in Tony’s voice and in Peter’s.

“Hey,” Steve croaked, fumbling blindly for Blaine.

“Stay awake,” Blaine said, gently slapping his cheek. “EVAC is here. Keep those pretty blues open, fucker.”

“Hey,” Steve said again, clawing into Blaine’s kevlar. “’M talkin’ ‘t you, Captain.”

“Yep, I’m listening,” Blaine said, but Steve could tell that he was looking away just by the sound of his voice.

“You’re m’family,” he rasped.

Blaine chuckled. “You’re my family too, Rogers. Quit acting like you’re dying, you just lost some blood.”

Steve tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure if it worked. “I know. But y’were right. I forgot. Mission first.”

Blaine didn’t say anything for a moment and Steve could feel the heat of the distant explosions as the compound burned. He dimly remembered the emergency backup plan. Even though they were expendable, even though they could be replaced, the military took care of its own. They made sure their boys came home, even if it meant burning cities to the ground.

It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but Steve had done many things in his lifetime that weren’t right or fair to protect the people he loved. He would sacrifice everything without hesitation—not that his life was worth much.  Tearing down buildings, destroying D.C., loving Peter and Tony even though they wanted nothing to do with him—Steve welcomed sacrifice. Probably too much.

Ever since his days picking fights in back alleys until his eyes were swollen shut and his face was cut and bleeding, he had sought death. And now he couldn’t let himself die. He had a team to fight for, a son and ex husband that wouldn’t want to deal with a funeral, and a life that would just keep going.

“Friendly!” Blaine called, his voice muffled. “Over here!”

“Mission first,” Steve breathed.

“That’s right,” Blaine said in a voice that might have been an attempt to soothe him. “And you did it. Mission accomplished. Now we go home.” 

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, a phone went unanswered in an empty office in Saudi Arabia. The machine clicked.

“Leave a message.”

A pause.

“Steve, it’s Bucky. Hey, uh, I was just callin’ because I got somethin’ in the mail from Peter today. Look…I think you should call me.  Soon, yeah? I need to talk to ya anyway.” A brief pause. “The dogs are fine. I’m fine too. Kinda lonely here though. But I’ll—hey ya big asshole, get off! Steve, teach your dogs to fuckin' listen. Anyway, call me.”

The machine clicked again.

A few miles away, amidst the clutter of a desk littered with shredded pieces of black thread and crusted, bloody gauze, a message notification lit Steve's tablet screen.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> note: yes, if you're wondering, i do play COD:AW and it has heavily influenced the equipment/facilities mentioned in this installment. honestly, the people who make that game know what's up in the future of the military, so i'm not going to go against 'em. ~~andyesmaybeblaineisbasedalittleongideondontjudgeme~~


End file.
